


Bits and Pieces

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (because this is 2016 and we can't have nice things), Angst and Feels, Awesome Crowley, Castiel is a Sweetheart, Coda, Dean Talks About Feelings, Episode: s12e04 American Nightmare, Episode: s12e08 LOTUS, Happy Ending, Humans are Worse Than Monsters, M/M, Nothing changes, Off-Screen Sam, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, POV Outsider, Probably Hurt and Alone, Some Fluff, Still Not Helpful, Yuuri!!! on Ice goodness, update
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-13 04:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9106993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: I hope you’re not watching that gay ice-skating crap without me, Dean thinks, as loudly as he can,because if the first thing I hear out of your mouth when I get out is a spoiler, I’ll fuckingskinyou.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> William Trevor died last month, at the age of 88, because of course he did.
> 
> This was supposed to be a one-shot, but it turned into something a bit longer. Chapters two and three are written, and will be posted in the next week.
> 
> [Rated T because nothing much happens, but everyone's very depressed, so watch out for general Winchester misery.]

“A person's life isn't orderly - it runs about all over the place, in and out through time. The present's hardly there; the future doesn't exist. Only love matters in the bits and pieces of a person's life.” ― William Trevor

 

 

* * *

 

 

So this is fine.

 _Peachy_.

Because, yeah, so it’s not like this place will win any Tripadvisor stars any time soon or anything, but it’s clean, right?, and Lucifer’s gone, and Mom’s off somewhere and last time they talked she was going to buy herself a 1968 Mustang (a car some douche had turned bright orange, but that’s not a problem - that’s like, the _opposite_ of a problem, because, _Jesus_ , Dean’s itching to get his hands on that awful paint job and do right by her, really, he can’t think of anything he’d rather do, and -).

Also, Cas made it out.

Granted, he’s probably trying to find a way to go all chestburster on Kelly without turning her inside out or something, which, yeah, not fun, but still.

And Sammy -

Dean traces the line in the wall, tells himself he won’t count them again, does it anyway.

Forty-one.

Forty-one days he’s been trapped in this hole, forty-one days he hasn’t seen Sam, forty-one fucking days no one’s even _bothered_ to tell him where he is or what the fuck they even want from them.

But it’s okay (could be worse). No one’s come in here, okay?, not even to fingerprint him or waterboard him or anything. It’s like no one gives a fuck. At all. And if they’re not - doing things to him, then sure as hell they’re not - then _Sam_ is safe. Because Sam - they’re gonna think Sam’s the one they can turn, right? The smart kid - the Stanford student who had his whole life in front of him before his psycho brother took it from him.

 _You know how psychopaths work together, Dean?_ A pause. A sly smile. _They don’t._

Dean closes his hands into fists, pushes Agent Henriksen’s voice out of his head.

(That’s something else that’s on him, and he can’t -)

 _See - now, Sheriff Grant - he thinks we should just hang the both of you and be done with it. But there’s something he doesn’t get, right?_ You _’re the freak, Dean._ You _’re the one who screwed up. And, Dean -_ you _are beyond saving, but your_ brother _\- just let him go. I know you don’t understand what love is, but you can still choose do the decent thing here._

 _You are beyond saving_. The way he’d said those words - Dean had laughed in his face, because Agent Henriksen had been so sure that would cut deep - because he’d known a lot about them, but not enough to realize Dean knew full well he was never getting out.

(That's what Dad had said, and what Alastair had said, and everybody fucking else - even Crowley - Dean can't stand the way Crowley looks at him - he can't stand the envy and he can't stand the pity and he doesn't know how Cas and Sam still think they've got a fucking chance to have a normal life, okay?, he doesn't, because look at them.

Look at the fucked-up things they've all done.

And, Jesus, of all the ways they could have died -)

Dean steps away from the wall, moves to the door, listens for movement (nothing), then leans his forehead against the cold metal.

 _Hey, Cas_ , he says, more out of habit than because he thinks Cas can hear him. _I’m okay. I got pudding today - must be a Sunday._

(He hasn’t. All they’re giving him is water and some kind of Cold War rations bullshit - hard brown bread that comes with blue clingfilm splattered with weird letters.)

Dean breathes out, tries to keep the fear and the resentment out of his thoughts. Cas is in the Bunker - he _must_ be - and that’s okay - that’s _good_ \- Dean doesn’t want him anywhere near this place.

(And it's not like Cas can help them, not now he's - _God_. And that's on Dean too, like everything fucking else, and -

It's over.

They’re just not worth it.)

And also - he doesn’t know where he is, and some douche in black clothes had put hoods on them both about twenty minutes into the ride, but still - Dean had seen the symbols on the handcuffs, and he’d seen Sam frown at them, then look around, as covertly as he could, to check for more.

So whatever this place is, it’s not - a black ops site, or whatever the fuck. Or not _only_ that. And the idea that the government could be - that maybe they’ve known about monsters all along and done _nothing_ -

Dean looks up, scans the ceiling for a hidden camera (again), gives up.

 _I hope you’re not watching that gay ice-skating crap without me_ , he thinks, as loudly as he can, _because if the first thing I hear out of your mouth when I get out is a spoiler, I’ll fucking_ skin _you._

There is no answer; there never is.

It's likely Cas can't even hear him.

_Cas, I -_

The sentence goes nowhere.

Dean straightens up, walks back to the bed.

 _I’ll talk to you later_ , he thinks, and then he wonders, for a brief, horrified moment, if someone other than Cas is actually listening to his babbling. If they’ve got some kind of surveillance gizmo in this fucking place - something powerful enough to steal prayers right out of his mind.

Which, of course, sounds impossible, but now Dean’s had an eyeful of the stuff inside that guy Ketch’s trunk, he’s not sure about anything anymore.

Hell, maybe everybody had magic all along and even those flashes of light in Kuwait -

_What’s that?_

_Nothing. Why are you watching that? Gimme the remote._

_Are people fighting?_

_Nah, it’s just fireworks - come on, Sammy -_

_Are those_ bombs _? Are we going to fight too?_

_Sammy, what did I say -_

_Are they going to bomb_ us _? Are we going to_ die _?_

\- were just spells going off and the whole world's secretly full of Harry fucking Potter bullshit and he and Sam, yeah, they're the stupid fuckers caught in the middle, and isn’t that just _great_.

And, fuck, if anybody's listening on him, or reading his goddamn mind - God, with the fucking miserable life he's had, Dean had always taken some comfort in assuming that at least one thing was fully his - that so, okay, he couldn't have a house or a wife or dreams of his own, but hell, he could still think and feel whatever the fuck he wanted and nobody -

But, yeah.

Despite himself, Dean thinks about it - remembers Cas looking at him, tilting his head to the right. Remembers Cas frowning as he said, _It doesn’t have to be a formal prayer, Dean - I can pick up on -_

He’d stopped, then, and thank _God_. And as Dean just stood there, trying to think of something, anything, beyond the blank horror noise of _he knows he knows fuck fuck fuck HE KNOWS_ swelling and thrashing inside his head and pressing against the back of his eyes like the mother of all headaches, Cas had licked his lips, looked at Dean again.

 _I don’t understand_ , he’d said, quietly, and Dean had laughed at him, walked away.

(Had realized, later that night, the shape of his gun making his pillow all crooked and uncomfortable and Sam snoring softly on the other bed, that Cas probably meant, _I don’t understand how you could feel that way about me_ and not _I don’t understand what that feeling is_ , because Cas - because, whatever, Mister 'I don’t understand that reference' sure got a _lot_ of things he wasn’t supposed and wired to get, and Dean had turned and cursed at his stupid gun and his stupid life and told himself, quiet and stern and hard as hail, that _that_ couldn’t happen, and to walk it the _fuck_ off.

Look at Ruby.

Hell, look at _Anna_.

And Cas -)

So, whatever, maybe someone’s listening to him right now, and _fuck_ them - it’s not like it even matters - it’s not like Dean’s telling Cas the fucking third secret of Fatima here - and he isn’t even going on about anything embarrassing, considering. No, it’s just - he likes to keep Cas updated on what’s going on. So it’s bits of sentences, really. Good morning and goodnight and lies about pudding and lies about how great he’s feeling and lies about Sammy, and _Sammy’s driving me crazy_ and _Sammy’s hair looks all funny now_ and _Sammy says hi_.

Dean sits down on the bed, glances at the wall on his left.

It’s possible Sam’s right there - just on the other side of the gray concrete, sitting down on the rough, gray bedspread, like Dean is. In fact, they’re so well trained, they’ve probably been acting in the same way for the past six weeks - some bastard wearing a headset had watched them both as they’d first walked around the room and looked for hidden sigils and structural weaknesses (no luck there). He’d watched as they both tapped on the walls, trying to hear each other (no luck there either). As they stalked the door, hoping they could jump whoever was going to walk through it - some special ops psycho with two sets of pliers, perhaps, or Mr Bigshot himself, or a fucking janitor - someone with a fucking _lunch_ tray - anyone. Hell, Dean can just about imagine the people in the control room leafing through old copies of _Playboy_ and _Asian Fever_ as he and Sam sat on their beds and counted the days in their heads and tried to mark the passing of time by scratching lines in the concrete wall. As they jumped and did push-ups and sit-ups, because, fuck, Dean hates that stuff with a fucking _vengeance_ but he’s not going to lie down all day and get fucking bedsores - he needs to stay sharp and he needs to stay fit, because these bastards will make a mistake sooner or later, because everyone does, and he bets that Sam’s doing the same - that he's probably having the time of his life trying out some weird Zumba bullshit, has turned the pillow case into some kind of weight by now, and -

(What if he hasn’t, though?)

Fucking _Sammy_.

Dean passes his hands on his face, forces himself to breathe. He’s been thinking about this on and off for weeks, that grimey feeling of worry grabbing his stomach and _twisting_ ; making him punch the walls and shout up into the invisible camera that his brother’s sick, okay?, and they can have _him_ , and he’ll tell them everything if they just let Sam go, because Sam -

 _God_.

Sam’s gonna have fucking Cage flashbacks, won’t he? He’s probably sitting in the corner right fucking _now_ , biting into his own fucking hand and talking to some invisible guy and wondering if anything’s even real and what the damn point is. And then - then some day soon he’ll laugh and look up and say that, whatever, _I’d kill myself right now if I thought that would work_ , his eyes all bright, his skin almost translucent, and he'll look the way he did that one time he got the flu as a child and Dean had to sleep in his bed and pretend he wasn’t worried sick and _Sammy, it’s gonna be fine, okay? Dad will come back and it’s gonna be just_ fine.

Yeah, that’s what’s Sam’s doing right now, and god _dammit_ , Dean doesn’t even need to imagine it.

He’s seen Sam like that so many times, he knows _exactly_ what that looks like.

(Lucifer’s shadow all over his kid brother’s mind, that is. Lucifer’s love and Lucifer’s hatred.)

 _Fuck_.

Dean’s going crazy in here, and he can’t, because they’ll get out, okay, so he can’t lose it, and he can’t talk to his brother and he can’t turn up his music and turn off his soul because he's got no music and barely a soul to talk of, and so he stands up again and he picks up that sharp bit of plastic he broke off a tray - the thing he’s using to keep count of the days, for all the good that's doing him - and he presses it against his palm, almost deep enough to cut the skin.

Thinks he feels a hint of warmth against the back of his head, as if someone had stroked his hair.

Which is impossible.

Dean bows his head.

_Cas - you still there, man?_

Nothing.

 _God, I wish you could talk back_.

For only a second, there is a white line where the plastic bit down; Dean watches it disappear.

 _This sucks_ , he thinks, and he tries his best to _see_ Cas - the uneven line of his jaw, the stupid blue of his eyes. _Look, if it ends like this, just - you look after yourself, okay, buddy?_

Dean closes his hand around the makeshift blade again, and this time he feels the skin break.

_And just remember - remember I -_


	2. Chapter 2

The man comes on a Tuesday, at twenty past eleven. Beth will remember exactly the day and the time, because she was about to have Mrs Alvarez sent in - it’s one of those alimony cases that make her climb the walls - but instead this guy shows up, walking right in without bothering with the buzzer by her door.

“Ms Roberts?” he asks, and, without waiting for an answer, he sits down on the cheap chair in front of her desk.

Beth stands up.

She doesn’t want to, because there’s something dangerous all over the man’s face - a curve to his mouth telling her he’s used to getting his own way, no matter the cost - but this is her job, and this is how she does it (this is the only way to do it).

_Always pretend you’re stronger than you are; never back down._

“I’m actually busy right now, but if you’d like to wait -” she starts, edging around the desk, and the man takes a photograph out of the folder he’s carrying, places it on the blemished wood.

“Do you know this man?”

Beth looks down, sets her jaw.

It’s a striking image - the colors are a bit faded, but the contrast has been enhanced, making the man look older despite the childlike freckles standing out against his artificially pale skin. He’s not looking directly at the camera, but this is still, very clearly, a mugshot.

_Shit._

“No.”

The man relaxes back into his chair.

“When was the last time you saw him?” he asks, and Beth crosses her arms.

“I said I don’t know him.”

“That’s Dean Winchester, Ms Roberts. We’re holding him for several counts of murder, assault and fraud - and we already know he was here on November 2nd, and that you met with him. What I want to know is why he came back two weeks later.”

Despite herself, Beth looks down at the photograph again. She’s familiar enough with how the system works to see this is not regular police work. Dean is not wearing a uniform, and there are no identifying numbers anywhere. The walls of the room behind him, almost floodlit, look like raw concrete.

She hasn’t seen Dean in weeks, but she still remembers, sharp as glass, how it was to be around him; how her every instinct had screamed and screamed to get out, to stay away, and yet -

 _How did you get in?_ she’d asked, looking up from her laptop, and Dean had smiled.

 _I got one hour_ , he’d said. _You sure that’s how you wanna spend it?_

“I don’t know anything about a Dean Winchester. This man has a slight resemblance to Dean Whitford, a police officer who came to my office in early November to discuss a case. I haven’t seen him since.”

The man smiles.

“I think you’re lying.”

“And I think you need to show me a badge, or get the hell out of this office.”

“In my line of work, we don’t go around showing our credentials.”

“Well - in _my_ line of work, we don’t discuss the details of cases - especially cases involving a minor - without seeing one.”

“If you’re referring to Magda Peterson, she’s dead.”

Before Beth can say anything to that, or even try and hide the sudden wave of nausea coursing through her body, someone knocks on the door, and, only a second later, Michael pokes his head in.

“Beth, sorry to interrupt, but have you seen -”

“Not now, Michael,” she says, her mouth very dry; and then, instinctively, she adds, “Also - remember to call the Oblinskis, okay?”

Dean had shaken his head at her when she’d told him about that, but Beth had seen the quick flash of admiration on his face. Because when he’d barged into her office, that first evening - Margaret had checked on them before leaving for the night, and Beth had told her the exact same thing - to call the Oblinskis - and when the night security guard had come to her office about fifteen minutes later, Dean had smiled at her.

 _Top-notch system you’ve got there_ , he’d said, after Beth had chatted with the guard for a few seconds, sent him on his way. _What’s your code for_ Shoot him right now _?_

 _We don’t have one_ , Beth had replied. _But_ Call the Robinsons _\- that’s code red. If I'd used that, the police would have been here at once._

_I am the police, sweetheart_ , he’d said, and he’d been so ridiculous, Beth had laughed at him, despite everything - despite the gun he was carrying, despite all those people who kept dying, despite the rumors of demons and possession that had nested low in her stomach like mutilated and diseased things.

And this guy, right here - he’s a professional as well, Beth can see as much, but it’s just possible he’s too _much_ of a professional - that he’ll underestimate her, think she’s just a dumb girl with a nurse complex.

And Magda - that’s not -

Beth can’t think about it. Not now.

(He’s lying. He _must_ be.)

“How do you know that?” she asks. She walks back to her chair, sits down.

Because she’s tried calling Magda twice in the last month; and when the girl hadn’t answered, she’d told herself - she’d assumed -

“Here is the autopsy report,” the man says, pushing the folder across the desk. “Clean shot to the head. Same gun Dean Winchester used in at least two murders.”

Beth wants to open the folder, but she doesn’t.

If Magda is really dead, it’s her, Beth's, fault. She’d been distracted and upset after the unusual events that had led up to the discovery of the Petersons’ horrendous secret. She should _never_ have sent Magda away on her own. She should have been more _careful_ \- she should have insisted on -

(Beth thinks about that November afternoon - how she’d told Dean, _If you ever need to talk, I’m here_ ; how she’d followed his gaze back to Sam, seen him pass one arm around Magda, smile down at her.)

“I told you,” she says, dryly. “I met with officer Whitford on one occasion - to discuss a case involving Magda Peterson’s family. I haven’t seen him since.”

“His car has been spotted ten miles from here, two weeks after Miss Peterson’s murder.”

Beth says nothing.

“A 1967 Impala? It’s pretty memorable.”

An Impala? Beth doesn't even know what that means - she’s not a big fan of cars. The man is right, though. It _is_ a memorable ride. She hadn’t seen it at all that day, of course, because they’d stayed in the library - they’d talked and talked for almost two hours, Dean’s words careful and restrained, her own little more than leaflet bullshit (the wish to just reach out and hug him, though, had been almost unbearable). And also - Dean had this way of holding himself, as if both expecting to be attacked and readying himself to attack others - something Beth had seen before (in veterans, mostly; and, once, in a child who’d been abused by his foster family). It was - to be expected, perhaps, given Dean’s profession, but also disquieting. For the first thirty minutes, Beth had actually wondered, on and off, if she was making a mistake. If this man was going to simply kill her and walk away, because forget his squared shoulders and his clenched jaw and his weapons - there was something about him - he’d looked broken in some place deep inside; too deep to reach, and, maybe, too deep to fix. 

Beth absently closes a window in her browser - something about relaxation spells. She breathes out.

This man, whoever he is, is lying. Whatever was wrong with him, Dean was good at his job. He’d made sure not to be seen, for one - they’d been alone in the increasingly darker library, and he’d left as he’d come, through some back door, unnoticed and unremembered; which is why Beth finally frowns and shakes her head.

(They’re fishing; they have no proof of anything.)

“It’s possible he came here, but I didn’t see him. And I still can’t confirm he’s the same man you have in custody. I meet with dozens of people every day.”

Lying to law enforcement: not the best idea she’s ever had. And yet -

The man looks at her, very carefully, as if he’s not seeing a person at all, but reading through some incoherent and disappointing data.

“At this stage, we’re simply gathering evidence,” he says, impassively. “But I feel I must insist -”

The fifteen minutes are up. There is another knock, and this time, two people walk into the office - Michael, bless him, went and fetched Pavel - the best lawyer they’ve got, and also the two-time Iowa weightlifting champion. He always looks slightly unnatural in his beaten down suits, and almost too big to be allowed, but Beth’s never been happier to see him. 

“Beth, we really need you to look over these documents,” Pavel says, firmly. “The deadline’s this afternoon.”

Before the man in front of her can outmaneuver her, Beth reaches out, snatches Dean’s picture, pushes it into the creamy white folder containing - _My God_ \- Magda Peterson’s autopsy report; then she picks up the thing, stands up.

“You’re right, Pavel - thank you.” She walks past her unwanted guest, makes some kind of apologetic gesture to him. “I’m very sorry, but I really need to deal with this. If I remember anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know, Mr -”

Slowly, the man tilts his head back and smiles up at her - a cold, predatory thing that has Beth closing her hands more firmly around the white folder.

“You can call this number,” he says, materializing a fat business card from the breast pocket of his suit. “Thank you for your time, Ms Roberts. We appreciate your _help_.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Beth is alone in her office. Coming up with some kind of explanation for Pavel and Michael wasn’t difficult. Unfortunately, their office deals with shady characters day in, day out. Beth hasn’t mentioned Dean - she doesn’t understand why, exactly, but she’d seen clearly enough that both Sam and Dean had been careful about the kind of memory they wanted people to have of them. Dean had flirted with every single person in the building, and even Sam had somehow projected this male model image - Beth had heard Susan talk and sigh about his biceps as far as early december.

(An impression of understated competence and charming guilessness and good looks; nothing more. 

Nothing out of the ordinary.)

Unsettled, Beth walks back to her desk, sits down, and lights her ‘mindfulness’ candle. What she really needs is a cup of stress relief tea, but she’s out of ginger. Breathing in the reassuring smell of the candle, Beth turns her computer back on, clicks on her ‘unsorted’ folder and then follows a familiar path through a dozen other folders - stuff named ‘spreadsheets’ and ‘sep2009’ and ‘transcripts’ - until she reaches her personal, password-protected files. Truth be told, she’s skittish about keeping them on her laptop at all, but she has to keep them somewhere and it’s just not convenient to work on her tablet, or transfer everything every Sunday night.

Plus, it’s likely no one will be interested in any of this stuff, anyway.

Hackers go after politicians, right? And celebrities. And people who spend money online.

Not a social worker in Mason City, Iowa.

One of those files’ titles is simply a date, written in the European format as a further attempt at hiding its content. Beth double-clicks on it, reads through the entire document, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

It’s bits and pieces, really, both because she had sensed Dean would react badly to her taking notes and because he himself hadn’t been particularly open and forthcoming.

 _How are things with your mother?_ she’d asked, and Dean had seemed almost surprised she would remember.

(But if he hadn’t come to talk about that, then why had he come at all?)

 _Better_ , he’d said, caught off-guard; and then he’d added, _I’m still not - we’re working on it. But there was a funeral, and it sort of -_

His voice had trailed off again.

Beth had waited. In a way, this was always the most difficult part of the job: allowing people the time to find their words, think about their lives. In theory, Beth was not a psychologist. She was supposed to help with filling in forms, asking for welfare checks, managing bills and payments. But most of the time, she found herself simply sitting quietly as the person in front of her struggled to explain - to themselves, most of all - why life was suddenly so hard; out of control.

 _Life’s short, you know?_ Dean had said in the end, and then he’d shot her a grin, as if to offset the sudden seriousness. He’d been so convincing - his smile lighting up his whole face, taking years of hardships and sadness off his eyes and mouth - Beth had been almost wary of him.

She wasn’t qualified to diagnose a personality disorder, but Dean -

 _You’re worried about more than that_ , she’d said, and Dean’s grin had widened.

 _Doll, you’ve got no_ idea _what goes on in my world_.

Beth didn’t mind pet names, but there was something different in the way Dean had used them. Some people, mostly older men, seemed to not even realize what they were saying, or that it could be offensive, almost inappropriate, in fact, and Beth had given up on that particular boundary: in this job, you had to pick your battles. But Dean had studied her as carefully as she’d studied him; he’d guessed, correctly, that his flirting didn’t annoy her; that she read nothing into it, because that’s what it was - easy banter, a way to relax. So he’d kept it up, and Beth - Beth wanted to see it as a genuine connection between them, but she’d been to enough workshops on psychological manipulation and addictive behavior to last her a lifetime, and -

Still, she hadn’t called the police. She’d been the one to invite him back, after all, so she’d tried her best to listen to him and help him ( _trust_ him). After what he and his brother had done for Magda, she’d felt she owed him that much.

 _Do you have regrets?_ he’d suddenly asked her. _A bucket list, or something?_

(You never answer questions about yourself. That’s the first rule.)

Beth had frowned.

_Do you?_

_Yeah, I - ‘s just normal, ain’t it? To know there’s stuff you never - you won’t -_

Beth had waited, but Dean hadn’t finished his sentence.

 _Most regrets we have are about family and relationships_ , she’d said, after a while. _Things we wished we’d said. Feelings we wished we’d expressed. That’s what tends to do the most damage to our mental health in the long term. So if there is something you need to get off your chest, my advice is to just do it._

Dean had looked almost hurt for a second, then he’d shifted in his chair, the gun in the back of his pants catching the light.

 _‘S not that easy_ , he’d said, and Beth had noted how he’d changed again - all trace of the grinning, cocksure ladies’ man completely gone, as if it’d never been there at all. He’d seemed to have forgotten her, his eyes dark and fixed, his jaw clenched. After a few seconds, he’d passed a hand through his hair, shaken his head. _Hell, I’m not even sure Cas -_

He’d stopped again.

 _Never mind_ , he’d said, but something had finally snapped inside Beth - because nothing about this was normal - because these guys weren’t police (she’d checked) and they’d showed up as her town was about to be overcome by - _God_ \- a wave of black _magic_ \- and they’d found Magda Peterson, they’d - and it went beyond everything Beth had ever been taught to meet with Dean like this, in secret, to even offer to help.

But if he was going to hurt her, he would have done so already.

 _You’re not sure Cas what?_ she’d asked, softly. 

Dean had ignored her.

 _What would I even say?_ he’d muttered, almost resentfully, shaking his head again. _I don’t even know what I want here._

Again, Beth had waited before adding, _What about what she wants?_

_What?_

_Cas_ , Beth had replied. _Cassandra? What about what_ she _wants?_

Dean had stared at her for a second, a strange expression on his face. Guilt, perhaps. Or shame.

 _She, uh_ , he’d started, and then he’d looked away, blushing slightly. _She’s planning to stick around. Maybe._

_You guys live together?_

_Yeah. Sort of._

_But you’re not - a couple?_

Dean’s eyes had followed something outside the window - a bird, perhaps, even though Beth herself hadn’t been able to see anything: the winter evening had now turned the sky completely dark.

 _We just live together_ , he’d said. _My brother’s there as well. And now Mom, when she - when she’s around._

Perhaps it’d been the quiet - Beth had chosen the place because she liked her old high school library and it was closed on Sundays, so it was a private place to work and skim through her forums undisturbed, but now the room had taken on a sinister tinge. Not that Beth had been expecting - anything, really, but this new piece of information - the fact Dean and his team all shared living quarters - who _does_ that?

( _Army_ , a voice in her mind had supplied. _And freakish cults. The ones with sister wives and suicide pacts._ )

 _But you think she doesn’t have any romantic feelings for you?_ she’d tried, and Dean had snorted.

_Romantic feelings - this ain’t some crap Jane Austen book, Beth. With what I do, there just isn’t any time for any of that shit._

He’d only ever called her by her first name one other time: back by the ambulance, when he’d thanked her for listening to him as he’d explained about his mother.

Beth had sat up a bit straighter, careful to leave the space between them undisturbed.

 _But it’s what you want, isn’t it?_ she’d asked.

Dean had leaned back, adjusted the gun in his pants.

_Yeah, not happening. My family would think I’d lost it, for starters, and they’d be right._

_Why?_

Another laugh.

_Cas is not exactly - girlfriend material._

_Why not?_

_Look, she’s not -_ Dean had hesitated. _She doesn’t think like us, okay? She’s like - I don’t know. Older._

Another surprise. Beth wasn’t attracted to Dean - her preferences were more in the 'no dick' department - but she could appreciate he was an extremely handsome man. Also someone who’d have no problem to charm the pants off anyone. Yet there he was, all bothered and uncomfortable and probably in love with a woman old enough a relationship between them would seem inappropriate.

Beth had tried not to let what she was thinking show on her face.

_Dean, I don’t know your mother, and I can’t say I properly met Sam, either, but you’re an adult, and they’re your family. If this makes you happy, why do you think they would be opposed to it? I mean, Sam seemed pretty -_

She’d looked for some kind of adjective, but Dean had beaten her to that.

 _Open-minded?_ he’d said, with another short laugh. _Yeah, don’t let that Doctor Phil crap fool you. Truth is, he’s been there before, and it didn’t end well for him. I really don’t see him being thrilled about this, either._

_You mean he fell in love with -_

Dean had cut in again.

 _Someone with - uh - a different background._ Very _different. Worst break-up in the history of break-ups_ , he’d added, and he’d grinned, and this time it’d looked like genuine amusement.

Beth had smiled back, just like she’d been expected to. She’d noticed only afterwards, when Dean had already left, that he hadn’t fought her choice of words.

Whoever Cassandra was, this wasn't some crush. Dean was in love with her. 

_I think Cas deserves to know_ , she’d said. _If you live with her, and work with her - if you guys are friends -_

 _Deserves to know - yeah, and if he doesn’t feel the same, then what? She, I mean._ Fuck.

Dean’s phone had buzzed.

 _We’ve got to work together. And me and Sam - we’re all she has. So, no, Beth, I don’t think Cas_ deserves _to have me putting all my crap on her_ , he’d said, an edge of anger to his voice. He'd taken his phone out of his pocket, squinted slightly as he checked the screen.

Beth had wanted to ask more - this story unfolding in front of her eyes had tugged and tugged at something nested deep in her heart, because Dean - because _men_ \- what is it with men and feelings? Beth saw them all the time, day in, day out - men who’d been hurt or abused or left behind - widowers and veterans and men with chronic illnesses and single fathers - she saw the clenched hands and the clenched jaws, she saw the words of anger, vivid as sudden flashes of light in the dreary space of her tiny office - but everything else was just missing. Beth would sit and listen and fill in forms in measured, staccato movements, and she’d sometimes feel she was dealing with a completely different species. She’d never known her father, she’d never dated boys, and the way men acted was a matter of permanent confusion and fascination for her. There was this widower coming in once a month for something to do with his insurance (to talk to a human being for half an hour) and he clearly missed his wife a lot, but the most Beth had ever dragged out of him, two steaming cups of ginger tea on the desk between them, had been a short, graceless sentence. _She was a extremely considerate woman_ , the man had said, looking down at his knees, as he remembered this person he’d loved most in the world. 

(A woman would have described moments together; her wedding, perhaps, or a special holiday. She would have smiled, or cried, as she presented word after word to Beth like freshly baked cookies - adjectives and colors and memories of the voice of a man long dead. A woman would have -)

And Dean - Dean who’d been standing up, because his hour (nearly two hours, actually) was up and his brother had texted and whatever excuse he’d given for disappearing all the way to Iowa was clearly fraying at the borders - _Dean_ was no different, and yet -

As Dean had pushed his phone back into the pocket of his jeans and nodded at her, finally offering her his hand with a laidback _Thanks, Doc_ and a wink, Beth had almost wondered if that time they’d spent together had even been real, because this - this was the man who’d charmed her way into her office, and this was someone who probably killed stuff for a living, and at that point, Beth had even wondered how _human_ that stuff was, because demonic possession - as Dean was walking away, his bow legs adding something of the lonesome cowboy to his intimidating figure, Beth had sat back down, passed her fingers, almost absently, on the protection ring she wore on her left thumb. A silly object, surely - more the memory of an old girlfriend than an actual Wiccan talisman - and yet - _yet_ -

With a deep sigh, Beth scrolls back to the beginning of the document to try and find the two numbers Dean had left her. His own, of course, is useless in this situation. Turning her eyes away from the screen, she takes the picture out of the folder, looks at it again, briefly, and now that man is gone (now she's safe), the washed out colors and the defeated line of Dean’s mouth almost make her sick to her stomach - she claps the folder shut, reaches for the phone, dials the second number she's got - Sam’s, presumably - and, before she can think better of it, of the danger she could be putting herself in, someone answers and Beth leans forward in her chair, words tumbling out of her mouth. 

“Hi, Sam - I don’t know if you remember me, we met in Mason City -”

The voice interrupting her from the other end of the phone is not, however, Sam’s careful baritone, but a barely there, sandpapery growl. It sounds like someone who’s only just woken up - or hasn’t talked to anyone in a long time.

“Who is this?”


	3. Chapter 3

Cas is fifty miles away from Mason City when he feels it - it’s very, very subtle, just the slightest change in air pressure - but, well, he’s been doing this for a long time, and he’s good at it. He slams on the brakes, and Crowley, who’s materialized in the seat next to him, slides forward and bangs his head against the windshield.

_Hard._

“Ouch,” he says, pointedly, and Cas finds he’s not sorry at all.

“I called you _weeks_ ago.” He starts driving again, the soft purring noise of the old engine almost drowning out Crowley’s muttered curses - not at the mess of blood on his face, Cas knows, but at the ruined suit.

Crowley is so - peculiar.

Then again, Dean claims not to care about clothes and yet he -

Cas clenches his jaw.

“I was busy.”

“You were _busy_?”

“I know you don’t understand people all that well, Castiel, but putting your life on hold for your exes is not considered -”

“You’re not _people_.”

“Now, that’s just rude.”

They pass a rusty sign, the letters on it eaten away by bullets holes. Cas feels Crowley glancing at him, but he doesn’t want to look back. He’s been angry for weeks - first at himself, then at everybody else, and finally at Dean - and he knows that looking at Crowley now may very well make him lose control.

“And you’re _not_ Dean’s ex.”

Crowley sighs.

“I can’t come running every time Dean Winchester is in trouble. I have a kingdom to run.”

“No, you do not. And Crowley - Dean and Sam have been missing for more than six _weeks_ , which is why -” Cas growls, but Crowley just cuts across him.

“I don’t know where he is,” he says, and this is what he always does - what he means to say is that he doesn’t care about Sam at all, but what Cas hears is that he _does_ care about Dean, because there’s rage in the words, and also worry.

Just a hint of it, but it’s enough.

Cas clenches his jaw, speeds up.

“What are you doing here now, then?” he asks, his bad temper fading slightly.

Crowley examines his pocket handkerchief, now stained and flecked with dark red dampness (because like angels, demons bleed human blood, and Cas has wondered about it more than once), then shakes it slightly, using a low grade spell to make it pristine again.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you -”

“No, you didn’t.” 

“- to check on you.”

“We are not _friends_.”

“You know, that _hurts_. It doesn’t matter how many times you say that - it always bloody _hurts_.”

“ _Crowley_ -”

Cas thinks he feels his phone vibrating, then realizes he’s just imagining it.

(It’s happened a lot over the past six weeks.) 

“Fine,” Crowley huffs from his right. “We are better than friends. I _care_ about you - you’re an _investment_ , Cassie.”

“ _Don’t_ \- don’t call me that.”

“My, aren’t we _prickly_ today?”

Cas doesn’t answer. Dean’s made fun of his impatience and unwillingness to take jokes more than once. Cas never minded. It’s true, and also -

Also.

He skims over the thought, as he always does, very slowly and very carefully, before letting it go. Now it’s not the time to think about any of that, anyway. Not when Dean -

And Crowley doesn’t have any information on where Dean and Sam are, and what is being done to them. Cas knows him well enough to be sure.

(Knows him well enough to be sure Crowley’s spent the last six weeks asking and threatening and bullying his way in and out of private clubs and government offices and police stations, because Cas can see his real face, and he’s seen it change over the years; become less - _less_ -)

It’s another twenty miles before Crowley breaks the slightly awkward silence.

“So, where are we going?”

It’s only six thirty, but the sky above them is already festering into a deep, angry purple. Cas turns his lights on, like Dean taught him (‘I don’t care if you can see in pitch-black darkness, Heinkel. Other people gotta be able to see _you_ , right?’).

“Someone called me from Iowa at twelve fifty-five today. Told me she had information about Dean.”

Crowley drums his fingers on his tailored slacks.

“How do you know it’s not a trap?”

“I don’t,” Cas says curtly, because it’s the truth.

Crowley sighs.

“I meant, what did she sound like? What are we walking into here? Give me something to work with, agent Beyoncé.”

Cas glances at Crowley, then away.

“She sounded,” he says, and finds he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Of course, it’s not unusual for him to have trouble with human emotions - even with something as basic as the difference between the truth and a lie - and speaking on the phone doesn’t make things easier, but all the same -

The woman had seemed wary. Surprised.

You _’re Cas?_ she’d asked, and something in her voice -

 _Yes_ , Cas had said, his own voice sounding way too loud in the empty room.

A slight pause.

 _The Cas who lives with Dean Winchester?_ the woman had asked next, as if reading from a cue card, and Cas had shaken his head.

 _If you need help with a - with something_ , he’d amended, choosing to leave the word ‘monster’ out of the equation, _Dean’s not here right now. But I can - I mean, I normally don’t, but -_

 _I know Dean’s missing_ , the woman had said, but her voice still hadn’t sounded quite right.

As he drives, Cas plays her words over and over in his mind, taking apart every breath, every vowel, the shape and taste of her consonants; he knows this woman’s name is Elisabeth Roberts, and that she was born in Mason City - can guess she’s not currently in love with anyone and that she’s dislocated her shoulder two years ago (a minor car accident) - but still, when it comes to the message she’d wanted to relay, ‘not quite right’ - that’s all he’s got.

Which is pathetic. 

_I know you care_ , Balthazar had once told him. _But do you even know why?_

Cas is not sure he does. It’s no wonder Dean never -

“I’m still waiting. I’ve got my notepad out, and everything,” Crowley says, and Cas lets go of the thought.

“That’s not true.” 

(Crowley doesn’t have a notepad. He’s just sitting there, like Cas, pretending his true form can fit in this slow, ungainly, underwhelming human car; pretending he has a right to be there at all.)

Crowley makes some kind of comment to that, but Cas is still distracted. He’s driving down a quiet residential street now, a place of ordinary houses and tall trees shaking their branches in the wind. Elizabeth - Beth - gave him the address of a diner downtown. She probably didn’t want to meet him at her office. It’s a smart move. Dean told him they often -

(Six weeks, two days, fifteen hours.)

“Beth is a social worker,” he finally forces out, and now he’s bad-tempered again. “A man came to her office earlier today, asked questions about Dean. Said they were holding him somewhere.”

“I see. A social worker - one of their charity cases?”

An ambulance drives past them, fast and urgent. There is shiny charm hanging from the rear-view mirror (a gift from a woman named Evangelia Mavrogenous). One of the paramedics is thinking about his wife. The man in the back won’t survive the night. Cas blinks the man’s pain away, tightens his hands on the wheel.

“They helped her with Magda Peterson.”

He feels Crowley look at him again, and this time he looks back at the demon.

“What?”

“Magda Peterson? Are you _sure_ that’s her name?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Nothing. Let’s see what this social worker has to say,” Crowley says, and Cas focuses on the road again, because he knows this girl is dead (he knows she was murdered), and if Crowley heard about it, then he’s not nearly as cut off as he pretends to be.

But that’s not a problem Cas needs to solve right now.

You _’re Cas? The Cas who lives with Dean Winchester?_

How did this woman know about him? Cas has noticed Dean is careful about the information - not because he thinks Cas can’t take care of himself, as he’d once told Cas very clearly during a heated argument, but simply because it’s the best way to avoid unnecessary risks. 

( _You’re family, and I want to keep you safe. Sue me_ , Dean had barked, before disappearing towards his room, and the next day he’d acted like the row had never happened at all. Cas had never brought it up again.)

So Dean doesn’t talk about him, and doesn’t introduce him when he doesn’t have to; when asked directly, he’ll shake his head and tell people not to believe everything they hear, and then buy everyone drinks before they can ask him again (when Cas had wanted to know about Asa Fox’s funeral, Sam hadn’t gone into detail about everything, but that much had still been clear).

And yet, Dean had told Beth about him.

(Why?) 

When he turns into the parking lot of the Starlite Diner, Cas is anxious and impatient to get this over with. He can’t imagine whatever this woman has to say will help Dean in any way, and he doesn’t know what to do next. He’s gone through every spellbook in the Bunker’s library - he’s tried to contact Heaven - he’s even summoned a Reaper, and she’d laughed in his face - but how can two people just vanish off the face of the Earth?

( _Vanish_ : that’s what Cas is focusing on, because he doesn’t have that kind of connection with Sam, but he _knows_ Dean is alive, he knows -)

Beth is already there. Cas recognizes her at once, because the shape of her vowels echoes the shape of her brow. She looks professional and competent, and there is a quiet, steady light of protection radiating from a ring on her left thumb.

Cas hasn’t bothered to look after his clothes in weeks, and curious stares bounce against the back of his head as he walks towards her table. He’s aware some people are wondering how he and Crowley fit together (Crowley, of course, is impeccable as always in his black suit, while Cas has been driving for six hours and he’s forgotten to even drink in the last few days - he knows he looks unhealthy - his skin too pale, his lips chapped; moreover, his shirt’s askew, and he’s not wearing his tie). He passes his hand on his hair, tries to flatten it, gives up.

“Beth?” he asks, but she’s already standing up.

 _Holy_ shit, the woman thinks, loud enough that even Crowley hears her (Cas can almost taste his smile, and he takes a step forward, as if to shield her); and then she extends her hand, clears her throat.

“Hi. Beth Roberts.”

As Cas shakes her hand, he’s distracted by the closed folder on the table.

Inside, there are two sheets of paper signed by pathologist from Nebraska, and also -

“I need to see those photographs,” he says, almost pushing Beth back as he moves towards the folder.

“Wait, how do you know -”

“Just an educated guess, I’m sure. Hello, sweetheart.”

Cas can hear, only just, Crowley making small talk with Beth; all his attention is focused on the image in front of him.

Dean was roughed up, and Cas can see, clear as day, that he was afraid and on edge, though his face would give nothing away to someone who didn’t know him. 

(He thinks about that first time Dean was arrested - about a ninety pounds boy sitting on a metal bench, as far as possible from the two violent drunks who’d been shouting at the night guard. About how not meeting their eyes hadn’t been enough.)

"Where is this place?" he asks, interrupting something Crowley's saying and not caring in the slightest.

"I don't know."

"I do," Crowley says, coming to stand next to him. When Cas turns to him sharply, Crowley smiles his upperhand smile. "What? I had it built. Politicians are tough negotiators, but they tend to pay well. _Considerably_ well, in fact."

"What do you mean, you had it built?" Beth asks, but Cas ignores her.

"I trust you kept your side of the bargain?" he says, neutrally. His silver blade flashes into existence for a second, and Cas forces it back into nonbeing.

Not yet.

"Of course. We keep our promises."

"So there is no back door? No rules concerning the lapse of the original terms?"

Crowley's smile widens.

* * *

As they’re starting to walk away, Beth reaches out, grabs Cas' sleeve.

“Dean said,” she starts, and Cas can see so many colors going off around her head he worries for a split second they’re going to be stopped and questioned.

(But of course, they won’t. Other people can’t see those colors. 

Or, well: _people_ can’t see those colors.)

“What?” 

He knows he sounds curt, but the truth is, if Crowley really knows where that place is, every moment he spends here is wasted.

“Dean said you were different,” Beth says in the end, and it’s clearly not what she’d planned to say.

Cas stares at her.

“I suppose I am,” he answers, trying to not turn the sentence into a question.

Beth looks down, seemingly checking her ring (which is still pulsating with light).

“A couple of months ago, we had two cases of - well, it looked like demonic possession,” she says, in a very low voice; and then she looks up at him again. “Are you - _that_ kind of different?”

Cas checks the parking lot through the window - sees Crowley, his head tilted back, his eyes lost in the stars above him.

“Not - exactly,” he says, and he’s not sure he understood the question at all. “Would that change anything?”

“I -” 

Beth lets her hand fall, crosses her arms across her chest. She suddenly seems very young. Too young, surely, to be involved in any of this.

Then again, isn’t everyone?

(Except him, of course.

Because this is why he was created, after all. To fight and obey.) 

Cas glances back at Crowley again; thinks about that picture of Dean, and now the thing is not under his fingers anymore, he can see the rest of it - he can see it more clearly, somehow - how the blinding light had accentuated Dean’s freckles; the familiar, sharp curve of his jaw.

Six weeks, two days and seventeen hours.

“Beth, I really -”

“Do you understand love?” Beth blurts out, and when she sees the expression on Cas’ face, she takes a step back. “I mean, can you - is that something - I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

The diner is quiet around them. Only two tables are taken, both on the other side of the room.

“Beth, I’ve been watching humanity for a very long time. I understand it,” Cas says. He hesitates. “And I think I can feel it. I am not sure.”

He sees the question forming in Beth’s mind, because it’s a very loud question, but finds he’s not willing to give it an answer. If Dean hasn’t explained her how Heaven and Hell work, any definition of himself he’d try to give would turn into a long discussion, and there’s no time for it now.

It’s likely she sees that, because her half-formed curiosity frays out, becomes something else.

“How can you not be sure?”

_What happened to you, Cas? You used to be human. Or at least, like one._

Dean’s songs say love hurts. Cas is not sure he has enough left of himself to even be hurt any longer. He's just - empty.

“You _will_ get him back, okay?” Beth says, after a short pause. “Just remember -”

* * *

It’s long past daybreak when they get to the Bunker. Dean had wanted to drive, but Cas had swatted his hand away from the keys. 

“Just sleep,” he'd said, and Dean had scoffed at him.

“Shut up. I’m not a child.”

“Oh, don’t start.” Sam had beaten his brother to the front seat, done his best to stretch his long legs in front of him. “Let’s just go, please.”

Dean had rolled his eyes at both of them, but hadn’t objected.

As they'd made their way back home, Cas had watched him in the rear-view mirror, on and off. There was something in the way Dean was clenching his hands that was telling Cas Dean wasn’t finished with whatever had happened to him and Sam. That those people they had injured and killed, that building Crowley had collapsed in a swarm of deep gray smoke, just wasn’t enough. That he wanted revenge - not for what had been done to him, Cas knows as much, but for the pain that had been caused to Sam.

_Do you understand love?_

Dean’s room is a peculiar place. It’s too big when Cas pokes his head in and sees Dean sitting on the bed, his head in his hands. It’s just right when Sam is in there, shouting about his ruined toothbrush and _Dean, for Chrissakes, how old are you?_ and Dean is laughing too much to even notice Cas on the threshold, looking at them both. And it’s too small right now, the walls closing in as Dean shifts on the bed and his laptop almost slides off his stomach.

“Shit -”

“Here.”

Cas catches the laptop, pushes it in position again, the tip of his fingers brushing against Dean’s clean t-shirt.

“Just - there.”

Dean looks up at him, licks his lips.

“Can you still see the subs, though?”

“I don’t need subtitles, Dean,” Cas says. He looks away. “I can understand Japanese.”

“Right. Yeah. I forgot.”

Dean shifts again, presses 'pause', then 'play'. Someone is speaking, very urgently, about some tournament and who is going to be there.

 _Which way?_ Crowley had asked him, and Cas had turned his back on the sound of Dean’s soul - he’d led Crowley to Sam first, because that’s what Dean would have done.

And when they’d all gone back for him - when Cas had forced the cell door open - Dean had _looked_ \- he’d -

Cas crosses his legs. His left knee brushes against Dean’s thigh.

Dean is _here_. 

(He’s safe. He’s whole.)

“Cas -”

“What did you tell Beth about me?” Cas says, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking, exactly. 

Dean’s soul turns loud and cold.

“Why?” he says; and then, bizarrely, he turns the volume up. “What did she say?”

 _When I open up, he meets me where I am_ , the main character says, because that is just a story and now Cas knows all of them, he thinks stories are easy.

“Nothing. I -”

Dean looks back at the screen; plays with the keyboard to go back a few seconds, then pauses the video.

“What?”

Yes. Dean’s room is too small. Cas thinks about the wide open sky above the Bunker, breathes out. He thinks of several things he could say -

_She was surprised to see me. She guessed I wasn’t human._

_She asked me if I understood love._

\- doesn’t say anything at all.

“Happy birthday, by the way,” he forces out in the end, because the silence is becoming longer and longer and he doesn’t know what Dean wants to hear.

(Does Dean want him to leave?)

Dean blinks, as if surprised, and sits up a bit straighter.

“Right,” he says. “Uhm, thanks. That was - three days ago, right? I got cake, you know,” he adds, after a short pause.

Cas says nothing.

“Just one slice, sure, but it had blue frosting and a candle. The works.”

Dean moves his hand over the keyboard, moves it back.

“That’s not true,” Cas says, finally, and Dean sighs.

“Yeah.”

There is another bout of silence as they both stare at the figure of a dark-haired skater frozen in the middle of a jump.

Cas is trying to find the right words - Dean makes it seem so easy - the way he’ll just sit down and say, _Talk to me_ \- but Cas finds he can’t - because he doesn’t -

“It wasn’t that bad,” Dean says, in a low voice, and he shifts again, until his leg his touching Cas’ a bit more.

Cas looks away from the screen.

“No, really. They didn’t - man, they just - they left us alone, you know? The worst part was not knowing what Sammy was up to. But they didn’t -”

Dean’s voice trails away into nothingness. Cas knows he’s thinking about all those other times people _didn’t_ leave him alone. He’s thinking about that hunter his father once left him with, the one who burned him with cigarettes because Dean couldn’t be quiet, and about that one time he ended up in a cell when he was eleven and how he came back six years later and burned the place down. And he’s thinking about that night Sam left, and there is pain there, something so raw and deep Cas wishes he could find those men and kill them, all of them - the one who’d given Dean the drugs, and the other two who had - who -

And Dean is also thinking about Hell.

Of course.

Cas opens his mouth, closes it.

He has no right to speak about that. 

What happened was his fault.

(If he’d found Dean earlier -

If he’d ignored his orders -

 _If_.)

“It wasn’t that bad,” Dean says again, more firmly. He presses 'play' again, and the skater lands his jump.

“Dean -” Cas starts, distracted by the sudden music.

Dean pauses the video again, but Cas doesn't finish his sentence.

“So do they, you know - end up together?” Dean asks in the end, with a careless nod at the screen. 

Cas thinks about Dean’s prayers. _Don’t tell me what happens next_ , Dean had said, but also: _Just remember - remember I miss you._

 _God, I miss you so damn_ much. _Be safe, okay? For me?_

“Yes,” he says, after a short pause; and then he turns, a bit awkwardly, so he can look directly at Dean. “They do.”

Dean looks back at him, and his normally direct, unafraid gaze does that familiar, endearing drop from Cas’ eyes to his mouth - it stays there for a full second before moving back up, and now there is a slight blush on Dean’s cheeks, and a quiet music to his soul.

“Good,” he says, licking his lips. “Yeah.”

He looks at Cas for another moment, then he turns, snaps his laptop shut.

“That guy was useless on his own, anyway,” he says. “Good thing Viktor decided to help him out, because -”

“The fans seem to think,” Cas starts, and he’s not sure if he should go on, but they’re not talking about fiction, are they? Not anymore. “They say Katsuki Yuuri was okay. Or, I mean - according to them, Yuuri was okay, and Viktor - he was the one who needed Yuuri. It wasn’t the other way around.”

“What?” Dean says, and he’s - Cas thinks maybe he’s read the situation all wrong.

(Again.)

“Viktor was depressed. Had been for a while. Years, maybe,” he explains, a bit too quickly, as he sits up: if Dean is putting the laptop away, it means he wants to sleep. “He didn’t know what he wanted from life. What life even was. The purpose of it all. And when Yuuri asked him - well. It's just a story. Never mind.”

Cas stands up, starts to unroll the sleeves of his shirt. When he turns around to say goodnight, because that’s what you say, even when it’s ten in the morning, he finds Dean staring at him.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m -”

“It’s not that late,” Dean says, checking his watch; and technically, he’s not wrong. “We could - grab a beer, or something.”

Cas shakes his head.

“You need to sleep.”

“I _told_ you, don’t -”

“You need to take better care of yourself.”

“Just - why are you being so _damn_ -” 

Dean starts to stand up, and Cas suddenly finds he can’t take it - he’d been so sure Dean would _die_ in that place, Sam too, so sure that he’d never even find out who had taken them and why - that someday, after years (decades, maybe; centuries) had gone by, unnoticed and unremembered, a new legacy would have stepped through the door - would have found him still sitting at that table, his fingers splayed over an outdated map, grieving for a man long dead.

“I heard you,” Cas says. He realizes he’s speaking too loudly, lowers his voice. “I missed you too.”

Dean says nothing. Cas tries, and fails, to close the button on his left wrist.

“I hate being scared. I was never scared before. It makes me -”

The sentence goes nowhere. Fear makes him stupid and useless, but that’s not the worst of it. Fear also makes him angry at Dean, and that's unfair. What happened wasn’t Dean’s fault.

“I - you don’t need to leave, man,” Dean says again from behind him. “Come on - come back here.”

Cas doesn’t turn around.

“Beth Roberts said I should be patient with you,” he says, and he doesn’t know why he’s remembering that now, but suddenly the woman is right there - her face open and worried and kind, the warmth from her protection ring shining like a beam of light in the space between them. “Why would she say that?”

There is a short pause.

“Just - come back here,” Dean repeats, and now he sounds tired. “God, you’ve bitched for years about wanting to watch over me or some shit, and now I’m okay with it -”

And at that, Cas _does_ turn around.

“You want me to watch over you? As you sleep?” He frowns.

Dean shrugs.

“I’m okay with your kinks.”

“My - _kinks_?”

Dean passes a hand over his face. He doesn’t yawn, but it’s a very close thing.

“That room you’ve got - it’s pathetic. No wonder you spend all your time in Sam’s.”

“I don’t -”

“You didn’t even put a poster up, or some curtains, or anything.”

“Curtains? Dean, these rooms don’t have -”

“Yeah, whatever. I thought we could try something else,” Dean says, and Cas suddenly realizes what’s different about Dean’s room today - at some point, Dean has wedged in a second nightstand next to the wall.

There used to be one; and now there are two of them - two nightstands, each with its own antiquated brass lamp.

 _I can see you love him too_ , Beth Roberts whispers in his mind. _I hope he's safe. I hope you'll find him again._

Cas is not sure about what Dean wants - he thinks about the only other time they’ve shared a bed, back in Idaho, when Cas had dulled the pain in his hand with alcohol and Dean had laughed at an old action movie. He thinks about falling asleep against Dean’s shoulder. About the way Dean had complained of a stiff neck in the morning. Cas had asked him why he hadn’t moved, instead of sleeping with his back against the headboard, and Dean hadn’t answered.

“I can’t do anything,” he says.

“What?”

“My wings are broken. I can’t walk into your dreams. I can’t protect you.”

Dean makes a strange sound - something between exasperation and amusement.

“Jesus, I don’t give a _fuck_ about that.”

“But -”

“Look, do you want to stay?”

A short pause.

(That night in Idaho, Cas had realized for the first time how _warm_ Dean was. He’d always known Dean’s body temperature, of course - he’d been aware of every slight variation of it, day and night, for years - but he’d never understood what that meant until that moment; how comforting it was against his own skin.)

“Yes.”

“Then stay.”

Cas walks back to the bed, sits down again; and Dean yawns - he reaches out, turns the light off.

“If you get bored, my iPod’s in the drawer,” he says, shuffling under the covers. “I downloaded you that crap you like - Hozzy?”

“Hozier,” Cas says, distractedly. “Claire likes him.”

“Well, Claire _sucks_.”

With a deep sigh, Dean stretches and turns on his side. His left hand finds the hem of Cas’ shirt, and he pulls on the cheap fabric until Cas moves closer to him.

“She doesn’t _suck_.”

“Well, she likes _you_.”

Dean is smiling now; a warm, sleepy thing that makes Cas light up from the inside out.

“So do you,” he says, after a short pause.

“Shut up.” Dean moves his arm over Cas’ stomach. “Do not.”

“Do too?” 

Cas is not sure that’s the right expression. Dean hears the question in his voice and laughs softly.

“Do too,” he says, and Cas can tell from his breathing he’s very close to falling asleep.

As he relaxes back against the headboard, he thinks that maybe Dean’s songs are wrong; he thinks about Katsuki Yuuri landing his jump, and the uncomplicated, almost childish happiness on Dean’s face as he'd watched this story of ice and cherry blossoms.

_Viktor is the first person I've ever wanted to hold on to. I don't really have a name for that emotion, but I have decided to call it love._


End file.
